Linked Chains
by dyingimmortal
Summary: AU: "Levi Kuklinski," she says, fingers tightening on the case file she's holding, "I'm Petra Ral, and I'll be the defense attorney for your trial next month." Rivetra, sort of.


_A/N: This was literally the first idea I got when I looked at the Rivetra Week prompts, but this took me the longest to finish out of all the prompts I did. (I slept one hour last night in order to finish it in time for Rivetra Week. Blargh.) I hope it makes sense, akasjdhfksjdhfsafa;dsf. Written for Rivetra Week Day 7: Reincarnation._

_So this is super long and convoluted and weird and probably doesn't make sense (there's some information in context that isn't spelled out). There's not much Rivetra in it either. You've been warned._

_HUGE thanks to João for putting up with and answering all my rambling questions. You rock, man._

* * *

He doesn't look like a killer.

As a criminal defense attorney, Petra's seen her fair share of them, and she has to admit that most of them look much more rough and ragged around the edges: like the frayed parts of their minds that caused them to commit their crimes have decided to show up as roughness on their skin, darkness in their eyes, murder in their breath.

There is none of that on this man. If it weren't for his standard prisoner's clothing and the fact that he is in a holding cell, she would probably have mistaken him for a businessman, maybe a lawyer like her were she to pass him on the street. His hair is neatly combed, his face smooth and expressionless, his eyes cool, almost bored.

He flicks those cold gray eyes at her and for a moment, something flickers in the back of her mind: _gray sky, gray clouds, gray equipment, gray eyes lidded with exhaustion_—but she frowns and the fleeting thought dislodges.

_Way to go, space out during your first meeting with your client, why don't you,_ she chides herself, and looks the man straight in the eyes, hoping he hasn't noticed her brief moment of hesitance.

"Levi Kuklinski," she says, fingers tightening on the case file she's holding, "I'm Petra Ral, and I'll be the defense attorney for your trial next month."

.

.

.

The rumors of his crimes are startling: twenty-seven murders in the past eighteen months, possibly thirty-eight more before that can't be properly traced, but they're only trying him for one: the kidnapping and subsequent murder of famed scientist Dr. Grisha Jaeger's son, Eren Jaeger.

_He was only fifteen_, Petra thinks, dismayed, as she sorts through papers and photographs and more papers. There is a picture of the Jaeger family clipped to a news article about the boy's disappearance; Eren's smile is wide and his eyes such a bright, luminous green they shine off the paper the photo was printed on despite its crappy quality.

There are many testimonies, interviews, eyewitness accounts (of not the murder but various other occurrences that rule Kuklinski as the most likely suspect) crammed in her folder. Scraps of evidence gathered over months paint a sketchy picture of the man whom she's supposed to prove did _not_ kill Eren Jaeger:

There is the given: Levi Kuklinski, age thirty-four, unmarried, orphaned at a young age, a bright child who dropped out of school in his teens and never went back. Then there is a long period of time during which it seemed he disappeared; next time he is seen he is working as a part-time bartender and freelance photographer who lives in a small apartment by himself on the outskirts of Sina.

Then there is the speculation, the hearsay: that he works for Erwin Smith, notorious leader of the Legion Syndicate; that he is the top hitman for the gang, a ruthless contract killer who will do anything for money; that he is a clean freak who cleans up the messes he makes after completing jobs.

It's a doubtful picture, to be sure, and Petra doesn't think there's enough to convict Kuklinski based on the evidence gathered, but Dr. Jaeger was well known and respected, and the death of his son caused a cry of outrage in pretty much every echelon of society. It's going to be tough to convince the jury of Kuklinski's innocence.

For a moment, she wonders if he actually killed the child, but she shuts that thought down before it can fully form. She's an excellent lawyer, eloquent and articulate in her speech, her wit sharp and quick, but she defends people who have been accused of crimes. Her job is to take facts and elaborate on them, twist words until everything she says sounds irrefutably true. If she thinks about the possible consequences of her actions, she feels sick, so she never lets herself think about them. _He was probably wrongly accused,_ she tells herself with every new case, and she tries her hardest to believe it every time, even when she loses the case and the person is put behind bars.

She'll have to give everyone a different impression of Kuklinski then: maybe a lonely man who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Shy, doesn't know how to communicate with others, can come off as rude and abrupt but it's just because he's unused to human interaction. He certainly _looks_ quite civilized; maybe she can play on that.

She'll need an alibi from him though, anything that can help her case. Petra shuts the file and resolves to start building a more concrete one tomorrow after speaking with Kuklinski.

.

.

.

"I don't remember."

"What?"

Kuklinski shrugs, the movement precise and fluid, almost delicate. "I was drinking that night and don't remember anything that happened after two bottles."

Petra resists the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose in frustration; she is professional. "What's the next thing you remember then?"

"Waking up in bed with a bloody knife in my hand."

She narrows her eyes at him and he looks back at her; his expression doesn't change but she could swear his eyes are mocking her. "Just kidding. There was no knife."

"I know you're only joking, Mr. Kuklinski, but please remember, you will be held liable for everything that comes out of your mouth, so choose your words carefully. What time did you go out drinking?"

"I don't remember."

"Can you give me a general timeframe?"

"Around 11 PM, maybe."

"So you left your house around 11 PM on August 27th to go out drinking. Where did you go?"

"A bar."

"What is the name of this bar?"

"Does it matter?"

Petra tries not to glare at him, but he's been this unhelpful for the last two hours. She told him what the setup of the trials is going to be like, told him what sorts of questions he should expect and what sorts of answers he should give if the judge tells him to speak, then started asking him basic questions to start out. At least he answered the very basic ones correctly ("What is your name?"—if he gave her an "I don't remember" on that one she just might have walked out on him).

She studies him, looks closely at his face, his posture, the way he positions his hands and arms and legs. His sits straight in his chair, his shoulders relaxed, his eyes flat, face aloof. If he weren't facing a possible life sentence, she would say he looks bored.

"Yes, it matters," she says through gritted teeth. "Mr. Kuklinski, I am trying to build a solid case to defend you, and every bit of information is important. Eren Jaeger disappeared around 12 AM on August 28th, was found dead in a park at 5 PM the same day, and if you can give me anything that could possibly disprove your involvement in the matter, it will benefit you greatly. So I ask you again: what is the name of this bar?"

He doesn't respond, just stares at her, and for a moment she thinks something sparks in his eyes—confusion? Interest? Something almost like recognition? Then the apathetic expression returns and he leans back in his chair.

"I don't remember."

An hour later, Petra thanks him for his help, thanks the security guards for standing watch the whole time, and leaves the room. Once she turns the corner down the hallway, she presses her fingers to her temple, trying to fight off an incoming headache.

Maybe building a concrete case will be harder than she thought.

.

.

.

"So it was messy."

"Yes. There were actually three bullets in the body: one in the left leg, one in the left side below the ribcage, and another lodged in the frontal lobe of the brain. Most well-aimed shots blow a clean hole, usually in the base of the brain or between the eyes; it looks like someone was firing from a distance and had to shoot multiple times."

"The legs and the head are pretty far apart on the human body."

The coroner clicks her tongue; Petra thinks the woman—Hanji Zoe was how she introduced herself—sounds far too fascinated as she says, "Usually, when people—especially children—are kidnapped and moved from one place to another, they are tied up in a position with their knees pressed to their chests—they take up less space and they're easier to transport that way. It's possible he was shot while tied up like this."

"Shot hastily?"

"Oh yes." Zoe hums a bit; Petra hears the shuffling sound of papers on the other end of the line. "And all the murders and suspicious deaths linked to the Legion Syndicate's phantom menace are the very opposite of _messy_."

"There is no proof that Kuklinski is tied with the Legion," Petra says, a bit testily. She hates cases like these: cases that come with a backstory, cases that have implications far beyond the crimes being tried. She is supposed to prove Kuklinski innocent of the kidnapping and murder of a fifteen-year-old boy; no one is going to believe her if they already think he's a hitman. (The jury's supposed to be impartial and completely disconnected from any previous knowledge of or related to the incident or the people involved, but she's learned over the course of her job that that's not always the case.)

"I'm just saying," Zoe says, "that even if he's not, some people _think_ he's the Legion's hitman, and they wouldn't believe he'd kill someone so messily. The Legion's infamous killer does everything perfectly: perfect holes, perfect cuts, perfect cutoff, perfect timing." She sighs, Petra thinks, almost _wistfully_.

_Strange woman._ "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you."

After hanging up, Petra scrawls a few notes down to help her think better. If Kuklinski was drinking the night Eren Jaeger disappeared and didn't remember anything that happened later, was it possible he'd somehow accidentally done something to the boy? But no, Kuklinski woke up in his own bed around noon, and judging from the answers he gave her, all he did the next day was go to work.

It's possible he was lying to her, she supposes, but little things like this can be easily confirmed or denied; Kuklinski's not the only resident of his apartment and security cameras can be checked. He was just unfortunately in the park when the body was found, and apparently he's been on the police's radar for a while now, enough to convince them to accuse him of being the murderer.

Of course, the entire process was accelerated due to pressure from the media; she has Dr. Jaeger's name to thank for that. Petra usually has more time to prepare for a case, more time to talk to the accused, more time for everything. And Kuklinski is one of the most difficult clients she's ever spoken with.

She sighs and rubs her temples before setting her notepad down. Maybe a cup of coffee will help.

.

.

.

"I don't have a lot of time today, so this session will be short. Have you recalled any new details you'd like to share?"

Kuklinski regards her calmly with those cold gray eyes, and for a moment she's hit with another flash of clarity—like she's seen those eyes before, many times, looking at her with sternness, with anger, with worry, with—affection?

She scoffs, flicking a piece of hair out of her eyes as she rejects the ridiculous idea. Of course she's seen those eyes before; she's seen plenty of pictures of him in her case file. (And okay, maybe she let her eyes linger a tad longer than necessary on some of them, but hey, her job is her life, and the only men in it are usually much worse-looking, and a girl can be unprofessional in her own home, can't she?)

"No," Kuklinski finally says, answering her question. His gaze flickers down to the table.

Petra frowns. "Nothing at all? You're not giving me much to work with here."

"Just make something up. Isn't that what lawyers do?"

Oh, she is _not_ going to get into a discussion about the morality of her job with someone accused of _murder_. She has rationalized her reasons for becoming a criminal defense attorney to herself before, many times, and she may not like her job much, but circumstances led her to it, and there is no changing it now. So she will do her best at it, just as she does with everything she has to do.

"No, Mr. Kuklinski, we do not _make things up_," she says through gritted teeth. "We present facts in a way that creates certain logical connections in people's minds so that they will hopefully see events the way we want them to see them. I need details from you, details you have not been very forthcoming with, so if you would only open your mouth and say things that _help_ your case, that would be greatly appreciated."

He blinks, looking taken aback for the first time since she's met him. _That was unprofessional of me._

She doesn't know why, but there's just something about this man that gets under her skin, something about his face and eyes and hair and posture that sends prickles of unease—not quite discomfort, more like a strange familiarity—down her arms whenever he looks at her. She's usually able to keep a level head no matter the circumstances.

She sighs and readjusts her papers on the desk, stacking and shuffling them until they are in a neat pile once more. She should probably apologize, but her pride won't let her. "Mr. Kuklinski, if they find you guilty, you are facing a possible life sentence. Please. Cooperate. It's for your own good."

He doesn't say anything, but something about the way he raises his eyes to meet hers once more fills her stomach with dread. His eyes aren't just cold, they're dead, the eyes of a man who has long stopped caring about the world.

_He doesn't care_, she thinks. _He doesn't care about his fate._

The thought shouldn't bother her so much, but it does. When she sleeps that night, her dreams are filled with the sound of buzzing wires and gray eyes wide with rage and pain.

.

.

.

"Long time no see, Petra."

She spins in her seat and grins widely when she sees the tall blond man standing next to her table in the corner. "Erd!" she cries, jumping up and tackling him in a hug. He laughs and hugs her back, nearly picking her off her feet.

"How's my favorite lawyer doing?"

"I'm the _only_ lawyer you know," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Not true. I think my mother's great-uncle was a lawyer. Well, before he died. I'm not sure; I never met him."

Petra laughs and kicks the chair opposite her out from under the table. "Have a seat. What have you been working on lately? How's Martha?"

Erd's eyes light up. "That's right, we just found out last week and haven't told anyone besides our parents yet. We're going to—"

"No way!" she bursts out before he can complete his sentence. "That's so great! I'm so happy for you guys. You'll make a great dad."

Erd smirks. "Wouldn't even let me finish, Ral. What if I said we won tickets to Disney World on the radio? But yeah, you're right. Can you imagine me as a dad?" He shudders.

Petra happily pushes her work out of her mind for a while to let herself chat with Erd. She orders him a coffee as he goes on to talk about the new book he's writing.

She met him during one of the first cases she worked on; he was on the jury. She actually walked straight into him not long after the trials were over (the defendant had been proclaimed innocent), causing him to spill his coffee all over his white shirt. She insisted on buying him dinner as an apology, and as they talked over Chinese food (Erd's favorite), they just clicked. It was like they'd known each other all their lives.

Years later, he's still one of Petra's best friends, though she doesn't see him much anymore; he got married and one of his books rocketed up the bestselling lists, bringing him fame and more pressure to deal with. She's always been busy with her job.

"So enough about me," Erd says, gulping down the last of his coffee. "Are you on a case right now?"

Petra grimaces as she looks at her laptop and then her papers, strewn about the café table. "Yeah."

He raises an eyebrow. "Tough one?"

"You could say that."

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and lowers his voice. "Wouldn't happen to be the Kuklinski-Jaeger one, would it?"

Petra nearly chokes on her drink; she manages to swallow properly and keep her face and voice neutral as she says, "You know I can't tell you anything." She always forgets how perceptive Erd can be, though she really shouldn't: as a writer, he often notices details and pieces things together just as well as she can.

"It's a high-profile case; the press are all over it. I'm not surprised. Dr. Jaeger was—"

"Well-respected and liked in the community, I know," Petra grumbles.

"So you _are_ working on that, huh?"

There's no point trying to hide anything from Erd; he can read her too well. He won't go around running his mouth anyway, and as long as she doesn't tell him any of the client's information... "Kuklinski is one of the most frustrating people I've ever had to deal with. He doesn't tell me _anything_; I have to force it out of him and even then nothing he says is really helpful." She swirls her cappuccino around in her cup and glowers at it like the drink is to blame. "Because of his useless answers to my questions, I can't even find any good witnesses for him. It's like he doesn't want help, almost… but if that's because he _did _kill Eren Jaeger, why doesn't he just plead guilty and save everyone the trouble?"

Erd looks thoughtful. "Have you ever thought maybe he knows something but doesn't want to get someone _else_ in trouble?"

Petra could smack herself. "You're right! You're so right. Erd, _you_ should be the lawyer. Seriously, where has my brain been? I should've thought of that."

There's something about this case though, something about Kuklinski, particularly, that makes her mind go fuzzy and her thoughts scatter. She's usually much more efficient when dealing with her work, and even though this case is more high profile than her usual ones, that shouldn't affect her. _Maybe,_ she thinks, _it's just because I haven't dated since college and my stupid female side is acting up._ Because no matter what he may or may not have done, there is no denying that Levi Kuklinski is attractive.

_Stop being an idiot,_ she tells herself, taking another swig of her cappuccino.

"… doesn't want to get in trouble with the Legion," Erd is saying.

She immediately tunes back into the conversation. "Wait, what did you say?"

"Not focusing again, are you, Ral?" he teases.

"I'm serious, _Gin_. Kuklinski has nothing to do with the Legion. Officially, anyway."

Erd shrugs. "Of course; no one really knows anything about the Legion or the Titans and everything's just rumor. But like I said, maybe he did do it or knows who did and doesn't want to plead guilty because he might get in trouble with his gang. If he's in one," he adds when he sees Petra's face.

"Hold up, who the hell are the Titans?"

Erd's face is solemn. "You haven't been reading the papers recently?"

"I've kind of been busy reading _past_ papers, so no. A new gang?"

"Afraid not. Apparently they've been around for a while but haven't done anything noteworthy until recently. They've always had a bit of rivalry with the Legion but it's never been anything big… until recently."

"What happened?" Maybe she doesn't really want to know; Sina's messed up enough as it is.

"There was a shooting on the outskirts of Sina last week; eleven dead and nineteen wounded. The police say they were hate crimes, but there's a lot of speculation that the gangs were fighting turf wars or something."

_The outskirts of Sina._ That's where Kuklinski's apartment is, where Eren Jaeger was killed. Something stirs in Petra's mind and she flips her laptop open immediately, pulling up a new document for a fresh page of thoughts.

It's just a hunch, and she could be wrong, but she just might be starting to see a pattern in the random bits of evidence and events she has patched together loosely in her case file. The puzzle pieces may not be clicking together, but at least she can _see_ them now.

"How do you know so much about these things anyway?" she asks as she types. "Seriously, Erd, I'm supposed to be the lawyer but you're like the expert on local gangs."

He snorts. "These syndicates—yeah, the _Legion Syndicate_ and _Titan Syndicate_—they're more than just small gangs; they're hardly local. These things are widespread and notorious and in a crappy neighborhood like this one, you have to know what's going on if you want to stay safe on the streets." He raises his empty paper cup and winks. "Plus, I've been looking into these things because I'm thinking of writing a murder mystery for my next project. You'll help me with the research, of course."

"In your dreams," Petra says, but she taps her cup against his anyway.

.

.

.

"You're not telling me everything, are you."

It's not a question; it's one of the first statements she's made in an hour. She feels a small rush of satisfaction when Kuklinski looks, for the briefest moment, startled. (Of course, the expression disappears in even less time than it took to appear, but that's not the point.)

"Of course not. Would you like to hear the color of the shirt I was wearing two days before the kid got shot? Maybe the names of all the convenience stores I passed by on my way to work?"

She doesn't know him, not really; their interactions have been limited to question-and-answer sessions and brief discussions centering around the reason they met; but she suddenly feels like this is all-too-familiar, like she's heard him run his mouth many, many times before, and she's definitely no stranger to the annoyance that bubbles up in her chest.

"You know perfectly well what I mean, so stop being a smartass. I'm working my butt off trying to prove you didn't do this thing it _seems like you did_ so can you _please_ just say useful things? Thank you very much."

_That was unprofessional_, she thinks, and she knows it, but somehow she can't bring herself to care anymore. She's spent hours and hours in a small room alone with Levi Kuklinski and she's sick of it, sick of the lack of answers, sick of the case, sick of _him_ but not really because there's something oddly intoxicating about being in his presence (but Petra's a smart girl and she is _not_ going to be attracted to him, not at all).

Kuklinski is quiet for the longest time. She huffs and turns to him, but he is staring down at the table again, his eyes cloudy, lost in thought, and for a moment they are so _hopeless_ her breath catches in her throat.

"You think I did it. You think I killed Eren Jaeger," he murmurs.

Oh no, he is _not_ going to make her start feeling bad for him. "Well, judging by how you were in the right place at the right time, the fact that you've dealt before with people who turned out to be connected to the Legion Syndicate, your time on the streets, all the rumors about you the police believe are true, and the fact that you won't give me any proper details about what you were doing the day the poor boy was murdered—well then, yes, it _seems_ like you did kill Eren Jaeger. But it's my job to prove you didn't, so _please_. Cooperate. Thank you."

The silence that stretches between them is so thick, Petra wishes it _were_ tangible so she could cut it away. She's been in many, many uncomfortable situations before (not even counting the courtroom), and this one tense moment is definitely near the top of the list of times she never wants to relive.

"… I may be partially to blame," he says at last, "but Eren Jaeger's death was not at my hands."

For all that her brain is sharp and quick, she has to stare at him for several seconds before it can fully comprehend the implications of his words. He may be speaking in a roundabout way again, or omitting things, or perhaps even flat out lying about the last part, but there's something nagging at the back of her mind, a steel grip, a flash of silver, determined words, those gray eyes, infinitely sad, and she doesn't know why but she _believes_ him.

And in the time it takes her brain to process all that, she finds herself leaning forward, clenching her fists and pounding them into the table so hard she nearly makes herself jump. "You know something. You know something and you're not telling me."

He doesn't respond.

_"Levi!"_ she cries, dismayed. "I'm trying to help! You need to tell me everything."

He blinks rapidly at her, the strangest expression spasming over his face before it smoothes over again. She's never seen him so disconcerted.

"What?"

He shakes his head, but then she realizes she called him by his first name. She's never done that with a client before, not unless she was asked to.

"Mr. Kuklinski," she corrects herself, and if there's a brief ache in her chest, she must be imagining it. "It's your life on the line here; only your future will be affected by the outcome of your trial. If you know something but you're trying to protect someone… don't. You don't want to go to jail for someone else's crime."

He still doesn't say anything, and she heaves a sigh. Back to square one.

… Or perhaps not. Petra eyes her notes for a moment, wondering if she should really drag the gang rumors into this, then decides to take the plunge. _He's not being helpful anyway._ "Did the murder have anything to do with… say, the Legion or the Titan Syndicates?" She watches him closely for a reaction.

She has to admit, he's _good_, but Petra's trained eyes are perceptive and she catches the hint of a flinch hidden somewhere in his face. So he _does_ have ties with the Legion then, perhaps… unless he's actually a member of the Titan Syndicate?

"If you know _anything_," she says more insistently, hoping he can hear the urgency in her tone, "anything at all, please tell me. I'm here to help you. _I can help you, Levi._"

She realizes her mistake too late; why does she keep slipping up and calling him by his first name? _Kuklinski _may be a bit of a mouthful but that's no excuse.

That thick, uncomfortable silence is back again. Kuklinski's eyes are fixed on the table once more, but his irises flicker, something dark and roiling in them like an upcoming storm. He opens his mouth and Petra leans forward in her chair; he's finally going to tell her something—

And then his jaw clenches and he meets her gaze. "I have nothing to tell."

Petra stands up too quickly; her chair scrapes against the floor with a loud shriek and they both wince a little. She gathers her papers, her notes, her files and shoves them under one arm more roughly than necessary.

"In that case, Mr. Kuklinski," she says, "we're done for today. Thank you for your time."

When she has finally arrived home, she throws her bag to the floor and slams the front door shut, then collapses against it with a thud. She bites her lips to keep herself from screaming out loud and resorts to thumping her head against the door several times.

She doesn't know why it bothers her so much—perhaps simply because she's trying her hardest and he's not giving her anything to work with, but something tells her it's not just that. In the end, she'll still be paid, and whatever he wants to do with his life is his business, so why does she care?

A cup of steaming green tea doesn't help, a hot shower doesn't help, and her smooth bedsheets feel unusually scratchy that night. When she finally dozes off, her dreams are of splintered bones and those gray eyes, wide with loss and pain.

.

.

.

Her case is still shaky once the trials begin.

She's done everything in her power to prepare already; now it's up to her brain to put the proper words in her mouth at the right time. _He didn't do it,_ she tells herself, and she believes it, but whether she'll be able to prove that is another story. The outcome will also depend on the testimonies that will be given, and in the end, it's all up to the jury to decide.

She eyes the prosecutor, Nile Dawk, across the courtroom—she thinks maybe, if they didn't have to argue all the time, she would like him. He's a stern-looking man with a permanent crease between his eyebrows from all the scowling he does, but she respects his strong sense of justice and sometimes, when he talks, she has to remind herself not to feel guilty.

The jury files in slowly and she looks at them carefully, noting each person's expression and posture. These are the people she'll have to convince, the people whose opinions she has to sway.

Kuklinski sits slouched over in his chair with his hands tapping the sides of his legs. Petra frowns. "Stop that and sit straight," she hisses out of the corner of her mouth. "Remember the image you're supposed to project?"

He straightens, but his fingers don't stop moving; the gaze he sends her way is indifferent. Petra's frown deepens and she looks away before she can make a snappy comment. Her tongue becomes dangerously loose too often around this man.

The gallery is filled with spectators. Petra's used to them, but it feels like there are too many this time; she wants to shoo them all out. She makes the mistake of glancing over at them; the first person she sees is a woman with red-rimmed eyes sitting in the first row, her messy braid and splotchy skin a stark contrast to the pressed blouse, gray slacks, and heels she wears. Petra recognizes her from a newspaper clipping and she averts her eyes quickly before the woman can look her way. Her stomach churns uncomfortably; it's Eren Jaeger's mother.

A door on the side of the courtroom opens and the judge walks in; Petra rises to her feet and motions Kuklinski to do the same. Judge Zackly makes his way slowly to the bench in the center of the room and seats himself, his motions calm and precise.

Petra can't stop herself from glancing at Kuklinski again; the look on his face is… bored. There's no other word for it.

She lets herself heave an inward sigh before pushing all stray notions to the back of her mind. She takes a deep breath through her nose and releases it through her mouth, completely clearing her thoughts of worries, doubts, and her client's stupid gray eyes.

_Here we go._

.

.

.

The trials drag on longer than she expects.

Of course, with so much pressure from the media (_thank you, Dr. Jaeger_), the dates for each court session are closer together than for most of the other trials she's been through, but a month, then another month, then another passes, and she thinks the jury looks more and more confused every time she goes back to the courtroom.

They went through all the legal and required processes already: the forensic analysts explained how a bullet to the brain had caused Eren Jaeger's death and confirmed that yes, the boy was legally dead. The policemen explained the protocol they'd followed when making the inquiry and then the arrest and recounted the scene of the crime, reiterating that yes, someone was actually dead.

That was all to be expected, but then witnesses were brought in, the defense and the prosecution made their cases and then proceeded to argue; not all the witnesses have been called to testify yet, and the defense and the prosecution are still arguing.

"So you're saying he did not resist arrest," Dawk says.

"Yes."

"Surely an innocent man would have objected to being unfairly subjected to such an act."

"Surely an upstanding member of society who doesn't want to cause trouble would wait to take legal action instead of causing a scene."

"Surely the bartender of a seedy underground pub in Sina would not constitute an _upstanding member of society_."

_Surely you need to remove that stick from your ass,_ Petra thinks, but of course she doesn't say it out loud. She always thinks she'd like Dawk if they didn't have to argue all the time, but then they argue and she's reminded of why she doesn't like him in the first place. He's only doing his job, just like her, but he's always so _stiff_ about it.

They argue to the point where the judge has to bang his gavel on the desk to restore order. Kuklinski looks almost amused, the jury looks more confused than ever, and no new conclusions are reached that day.

.

.

.

"You've heard me talk. You've heard everything I said. Tell me. What more can I do?"

Kuklinski looks at her, and yes, that is definitely amusement in his eyes. "You're holding your ground just fine against Nile Dawk, in my opinion."

For a moment, she forgets that he's been accused of murder; she forgets that she's his lawyer, that he's withholding information, that he looks far too unfriendly in the courtroom to uphold her image of him as a shy, unassuming loner. "I've been winning cases against him for years now. Of course, I've lost some too, but oh, he hates me. So much."

Kuklinski doesn't respond, but his eyes are oddly bright for once as he looks at her, and her breath stills in her throat—once again, _gray sky, gray clouds, gray equipment, gray eyes lidded with exhaustion_—and she just stares at him.

"What?"

The moment passes and she forces herself back to reality—_what the hell am I spacing out for now, of all times?_—and she presses her lips together. "Mr. Kuklinski, I'll ask you again: is there anything you'd like to tell me? I could do so much more if I knew more about your situation."

There it is again: the blankness is back. The amusement disappears from his eyes as quickly as it came; he looks away. "No."

"Are you being blackmailed, Mr. Kuklinski?"

He scoffs. "Of course not."

That infuriates her; she doesn't know why but she _cares_ and he's just throwing it in her face. She clenches her fists and her teeth and spits, "Then does your life really mean so little to you?"

For the first time, she thinks she got to him—he turns to face her, and there is a spark in his eyes now, of surprise, of anger, and he spits back, "My life means _nothing_."

His voice is raw, his face perfectly serious as he says it, and Petra can only stare at him, dumbfounded. She doesn't know what his problem is, what more she can do to help, so she just leaves, though not before reminding him of the date of the next court session.

That night her dreams are filled with bloody, broken blades and gray eyes wide with shock and pain.

.

.

.

She and Dawk exchanged witness lists; she did her research properly. This young woman is not supposed to be here.

Her name is Annie Leonhardt. She's short, shorter than Petra; her blond hair is tied back neatly and her blue eyes are wide as she recounts her firsthand account of Eren Jaeger's murder.

She apologizes for not coming out with the information sooner; "I'm just a frail girl," she says, "and what I saw shocked me so much I couldn't even think about it at first." Dawk looks smug; members of the jury are nodding; the judge has a nearly imperceptible frown of concentration on his face. Petra turns to look at Kuklinski and freezes.

She's never seen him look so _furious_ before. She's caught occasional glimpses of anger lurking in the depths of his eyes, but now it is plain on his face, furrowing his brow, darkening his eyes, slanting the corners of his mouth down. He looks like someone enraged enough to kill.

_Broken blades, rage and pain, splintered bones, screaming and panic_—the sudden feeling of something horribly wrong seizes Petra for a moment and she has to clutch her forehead, trying not to let the dizzying sensation overtake her consciousness. When the feeling finally subsides, Annie Leonhardt has finished her testimony and is walking back to the witness stand, her heels clicking on the floor.

The judge is asking Dawk something now, but Petra doesn't hear it; she can't tear her eyes away from Kuklinski. He's gripping the edges of his chair, his knuckles turning white, and anyone watching him might think he's angry because someone finally gave him away. But Petra knows deep in her gut it's not that; he's angry because Annie Leonhardt is lying. _She's lying_.

She played the part perfectly, but Petra has known girls like that before, girls who act and live lives of lies. And Annie Leonhardt was the perfect liar.

The rest of the trial seems to pass in a blur. Petra tries to focus her mind again but nothing seems to be able to penetrate the buzzing in her ears. When the judge asks Kuklinski if he'd like to speak in his own defense, there is a long, dead silence, until he finally says, his voice low, "No, Your Honor."

Given one chance to defend himself properly, _in his own words_, and he doesn't take it. Petra has to choke back a cry of outrage; just _what_ is he protecting?

At long last, the judge declares the trial over. It's all up to the jury now; and as people start leaving the courtroom and guards walk up with handcuffs to lead Kuklinski back to his cell, Petra can't shake the feeling that everything is terribly, terribly wrong.

.

.

.

"She was lying," Kuklinski says. "You probably don't believe me, but _I didn't do it._"

"I believe you," Petra says. Her mind still feels foggy, like she's in a trance, and she doesn't know what surprises her more, finding her hand reaching through the bars for his or his letting her take it.

"What are you protecting, Levi?" she murmurs. She feels like the words are being pulled out of her by some unseen force, and she's helpless to stop it. "Why didn't you speak in your own defense? _What are you protecting?_"

He just shakes his head.

.

.

.

Petra has heard the words before, many times: on TV, in movies, in books, in conversations, in newspapers, but the reality doesn't sink in, refuses to sink in, even as she hears them used in context in real life for the first time:

_Death penalty._

The jury didn't take long to decide; she thinks they were as tired of the case as she was and grabbed onto the first bit of "concrete proof" they could to proclaim Levi Kuklinski guilty. They only debated for four hours.

The death penalty hasn't been used in years in Sina; it's certainly never been used in any of the cases Petra's worked on. She stares at Judge Zackly, eyes wide, but even as her brain rejects the sentence, she recalls the collective harsh outcry that went up everywhere at Eren Jaeger's death, Dr. Jaeger's popularity, and all the press the case has been getting.

_He can't let them think he's being soft._

And it was certainly easy for the jury to decide Kuklinski's guilt; with the way he usually sits there, his face blank and eyes hostile, he's definitely never done anything to convince them otherwise.

She should be logical, she should not just assume Annie Leonhardt was lying, she should think the matter through calmly and make a rational judgment, but Petra feels it in her gut—no, deeper than her gut, her bones, her _soul_—that they are wrong, Annie Leonhardt was wrong, _they are all wrong_, and they just sentenced an innocent man to death.

She looks at Kuklinski; he is perfectly still. He is not looking at the judge but at her, and his face is completely resigned.

The judge is deciding on the date and time of the sanction; but Petra can't pay attention, she can't bear to listen, she can't just sit there, _she has to do something_, but she is still in the courtroom and she can't do anything. She is completely helpless, and the feeling chokes her.

She doesn't talk to Kuklinski afterwards, doesn't look at him as guards lead him back to his cell again, just leaves the courtroom in a hurry. There is still legal business to take care of and she does, but she has no idea if she's even signing her name properly on the documents. She goes home and boils hot water, sits at the kitchen table and drinks it, her movements dazed and empty.

That night she only dreams of blood.

.

.

.

They tell her she can visit him at three in the afternoon. At four-thirty he'll have his last meal, around six they'll lead him to the execution room, by seven he'll be dead.

The death house is a small brick building with only a few cells and a death chamber; it hasn't been used in years. Kuklinski stands in one of the cells, his expression distasteful as he looks at the grime coating the walls and floor.

"Can I have a moment alone?" she asks the death house chaplain, an elderly blond man with a buzz cut. The man's smile is almost sympathetic.

"You're his attorney?"

"Yes."

"Sure thing, miss."

The chaplain leaves, closing the door behind him; it is just Petra and Levi—_Kuklinski,_ she corrects herself—bars separating them. He stares at her for a moment and then, unexpectedly, a smirk appears on his face.

"They said I could call someone at two, but I couldn't think of anyone to call. They said I could meet my spiritual advisor at this time too, but—surprise—I don't have one."

"How can you joke?" she hisses. "You're about to _die_ for something you didn't do and wouldn't defend yourself against and you're _joking_?"

He's smiling now, but the expression is too bitter and sardonic to be called that, really. "Miss Ral, it doesn't matter. I deserve to die anyway."

"For _what_?" she's about to ask, but the words fade in her throat when she looks into his eyes, _really_ looks into them. They are sharp and intense, violent yet dead all at once, the gray color of thunderclouds, the pale color of sleet, the ashen color of corpses long after the blood in them has dried out.

"So you _do_ work for the Legion," she whispers.

He breaks the gaze first. "Since I was a teenager."

"All those rumors…"

"Don't know what you've heard, but they're probably true."

He's a murderer then. Petra takes a step back, though the bars between them remain firmly in place. Even as she does, she thinks of the trial and Annie Leonhardt's testimony; it doesn't add up.

"But you didn't kill Eren Jaeger…"

His eyes sharpen and focus; he leans forward, pressing his face against the bars, and she unconsciously takes another step back. "You need to stop the Titans. Let someone, anyone know. Tell Dr. Jaeger he shouldn't have made dealings with them; they're the ones who killed his son. Annie Leonhardt works for them."

"What? I don't…"

"I _did_ kidnap Eren Jaeger. Because the Titans wanted to blackmail Dr. Jaeger with his son; the scientist knows too much and they wanted to make sure he was loyal to them. He's been doing experiments and his son got caught up in them… It's information the Titans should never have. I took the boy from them, but they caught up, and they killed him. They didn't want the Legion, they didn't want _Erwin_ getting him. And then they blamed me. That was smart of them. Killing two birds with one stone. I've been one troublesome bird."

It's too much; Petra can't handle it. Too much, all too much. His words bounce around in her brain, not settling anywhere, and she can only say, "Why didn't you say any of this earlier?"

His smile is brittle. "Because I was fucking selfish. Selfish and stupid. I never thought I would get a death sentence, only a life sentence in jail. Though now it's too late, so give my regards to Erwin."

"Erwin… Erwin Smith?" The head of the Legion Syndicate. Petra blinks rapidly as her world expands and contracts around her; she doesn't know what to think, what to feel anymore. "What do you mean, selfish? You wanted to go to jail?"

He looks away, then grimaces as his eyes fall on the filth in his cell. He turns back to her. "There are still ways to contact people in jail, but none that I know of from the afterlife. Or hell."

"You can't say that," Petra says. "You can't say that because _you don't know_. And you didn't answer me; what do you mean, selfish?"

He just looks at her, and as she stares into those gray eyes, dead and alive and full of hate and pain all at once, that sensation tugs at her gut again; not her gut, her soul, the skin and bones of her spirit. She _knows_.

"You never wanted to be a killer, did you," she says.

He lets out a harsh sound that might be considered laughter. "Who _wants_ to kill? Miss Ral, I owe Erwin Smith _everything, _everything that a thousand lifetimes couldn't repay, and it would be selfish of me to leave him. I tried anyway. Looks like I'm getting my wish."

"Shut up," she snaps. _"Shut up."_

"You need to stop the Titans," he says, and his eyes blaze with purpose. "I should be the one to obliterate them, but since I'm pretty much a dead man now…"

"What did the Titans _do_? Why is the Legion against them? The Legion is still a gang, isn't it? What makes you better than the Titans? What the hell is going on?"

"What did the Titans do, you ask?" Kuklinski steps as close to the edge of the bars as he can without touching them; his tone is flat once more, his face expressionless, his eyes calm. "What didn't they do? They will kill everyone you love. They won't stop until the Sina you know is _gone_."

"But _why_?"

"Who can say?" Kuklinski shrugs, and the movement is so careless they could have been discussing tomorrow's possible weather (_weather he won't get to experience_). "Some old grudge, perhaps, from a time long gone."

The haze is back; Petra can't move, can't think, can't feel. The words make no sense, but at the same time, they make perfect sense and they mean all too much. She realizes at some point during the conversation, she moved back to her original position right in front of Kuklinski, with only a few centimeters of space and the iron bars of the cell separating them; he blows out a breath and she feels it on her lips.

The chaplain comes back then, telling her he can't give them any more time alone than that. Kuklinski steps back, his face a mask once more.

"Good-bye, Petra," are his last words to her. "Thank you for your time."

.

.

.

The chaplain will tell her later that Levi Kuklinski died the most peaceful death he's ever seen. Other inmates he remembers getting nervous, starting to babble, panicking, even crying, but not Kuklinski; he was as relaxed as someone going to take a nap on a lazy afternoon.

Petra takes a taxi home that night; she doesn't think she can walk without getting herself into some form of trouble. The driver has to ask her three times before she mutters her destination, and she pays him way too much and leaves the cab before he can give her any change.

She has to fit her key into the lock five times before it clicks and turns, because her hands have started to tremble. She glances at the kitchen, considering for a brief second boiling a pot of tea, and immediately rejects the idea; she'd probably burn all the skin on her hands off in this state of mind.

She goes to the bathroom and flicks on the light switch; she opens the cabinet above the sink for her toothbrush. As she reaches for her cup, it slips out of her grip and falls onto the tile floor, shattering into a million crystal shards.

And then she has fallen to the floor as well, sobbing, not caring that the glass is embedding into her skin, drawing blood, because she feels so shaky and not herself and just plain _wrong_ and she doesn't know why. She cries and cries; she can't stop; she tells herself Levi Kuklinski was a criminal and deserved to die, even if he was innocent of the particular crime he'd been killed for, but no matter how many times she repeats this to herself she can't shake the hollow, empty feeling inside, like she's lost something terribly, dearly important.

.

.

.

* * *

_A/N: I literally know nothing about trials and defense lawyers and cases and stuff like that but this idea wouldn't leave me alone so I did research and pestered people (thanks again, João!) and tried my best but I have no idea how accurate any of this is, so please, feel free to point out any mistakes and inconsistences. You may have noticed I pretty much glossed over the trials: yeah because seriously WHAT ARE TRIALS. No but seriously I haven't even watched Law & Order or ANYTHING. LIKE THE AMOUNT OF KNOWLEDGE I HAVE ABOUT THESE THINGS IS EQUIVALENT TO THE AMOUNT OF TITANS I'VE KILLED. (That's zero. Just to clarify.)_

_But I really am sorry if I've grossly misrepresented anything. If I have, please do let me know._

_Sorry for killing Eren in this; don't hate me, I love Eren, he's one of my favorite characters, but I wanted the case to have some connection with the SnK plot/characters and not just be the murder of some random person. Oh, and apparently the official spelling is "Yeager" but I'm just too used to "Jaeger" right now, so that's how I spell it. Sorry if that bothered anyone._

_Yes, Kuklinski is a Polish name, but if you Google it you'll see why I chose it. Except Levi's not that cruel IMO; he doesn't kill 'cause he likes it or 'cause people make him lose his temper. But whatever. I think "Levi Kuklinski" has a nice ring to it. (Probably just me though.)_

_I probably got the idea for Hanji being a coroner from While All The Vultures Feed by **RationalParanoia**;__ I needed a coroner and Hanji is perfect as one. If you are a Rivetra fan and haven't read WATVF, drop everything and go do that. Now._

_I swear someday I'll write a Rivetra reincarnation fic in which they actually end up together. (This is the third one in which they don't. Whoops.)_

_Please let me know what you thought of this? I'm totally not sure about this one._


End file.
